Good heavens! What had she been saying? Had she given away her precious
secret?
"Certainly not!" she answered, with flaming cheeks. "Of course not.
It's nothing. Only somebody--somebody has broken their word."
"Look-a-that, now!" cried the Admiral, puzzled. "But I'll cure you!
I'll tell you a story. Something funny. How I lost my eye--what?" He
drew her down beside him on the seat under the elm. "Ye see, it was on
board o' the _Termagant_--"
"When you was with Nelson?" asked Marjolaine.
"Ay. Battle o' Copenhagen; year Eighteen-one."
Here was a possible opening. At any rate Marjolaine would try.
"I suppose you had many officers under you?" she insinuated.
"Hundreds!" cried Sir Peter, enthusiastically; and then, feeling he had
conveyed an exaggerated impression, "well--when I say hundreds--!" his
memory awoke. "Ah! I was somebody, then!--But this infernal
government--!"
Marjolaine laid her hand soothingly on his arm. "I suppose some of them
were quite young?" she said, with splendidly assumed indifference.
Every woman is a born actress.
"Middies?" cried the Admiral, with magnificent contempt. "Lord love ye,
I took no notice o' them! Passel o' powder-monkeys!" Then he added
with a touch of tender recollection, "Not but what Jack Sayle--"
"Jack what?" said Marjolaine quickly, as if she had not heard.
"Sayle. Jack Sayle. You know. Young feller I presented to your
lady-mother a week ago. Time she swooned--"
"Oh, yes."
"Gobblessmysoul! I was startled! I thought--"
The Admiral must not be allowed to wander from the only topic that
mattered. Marjolaine interrupted him. "Was he on your ship?"
"What, Jack Sayle? Ay, was he. And a fine young feller, too. Of
course you was much too agitated to notice him last Saturday. Gad! I
wonder he has n't been to see me all the week. Promised he would. Said
he 'd come last Monday."
"Did he?" cried Marjory. So he had broken his word in two places!
"He did. There! He's only on leave, and he has heavy social duties.
Only son of Lord Otford, y' know."
"Lord Otford!" Marjolaine repeated, amazed. The name and the title
somehow impressed her with a sense of vague fear.
"Ay, ay," the unconscious Admiral proceeded garrulously. "My old
friend. Otford's selfish about him. Ye see, the boy 'll come into a
great estate. Half a county. And the old man's anxious about his
marriage."
"Whose marriage?" asked Marjory, almost voicelessly.
"Why, Jack's, to be sure!--Lord!--they marry 'em now before they 're out
of their swaddling clothes. Otford's in a hurry to secure the
succession--" He stopped abruptly. This was really not a subject to
discuss with a young girl. "Hum!--what I was about to say--er--the
Honourable Caroline Thring--!"
"Caroline Thring"--Marjolaine repeated the name to herself. It was a
name to remember.
"Ay--daughter and sole heiress of Lord Wendover. Not my sort. Goes
about doing good--like the party last Saturday. But the two estates 'll
cover the county. It's an undoubted match--"
Marjolaine had heard all she wanted--and more. She felt she would break
down if the Admiral went on. She looked all around the Walk for help;
for some excuse to break off the conversation. There was only
Sempronius. "I think--" she just gave herself time to make up her mind
as to what she could think--"I think I saw Sempronius stirring!"
Sir Peter jumped up. "Damn that cat!" he cried--"Beg pardon!--I'll--"
But the golden-haired Sempronius was sound asleep with his bushy tail
over his nose.
Whether the Eyesore was shocked by the Admiral's bad language--which
seems unlikely--or whether he was moved by his usual thirst, he dropped
his fishing-rod, and vanished round the corner.
The Admiral hurried back.
"No. He 's quiet enough." He saw Marjolaine's sad face and added,
"Gobblessmysoul! Here I 've been boring you about a young feller you
don't know--" To his amazement Marjolaine turned her face away
abruptly. The Admiral stopped short. Why did she turn away? Was it
possible that--? How long had Jack been in the Walk when he met him a
week ago? "_Do_ you know him?" said he. Marjolaine was silent. Sir
Peter gave a low whistle. He took her gently by the shoulder and turned
her towards him. "Here, I say, young woman--You just look me in the
eye." He pointed to his good one. "This eye." Marjolaine stood before
him in confusion. It made her angry to feel confused. Why should she
feel confused? "I--I have seen him once," she answered bravely.
"Have you, begad!--So that's what he was cruising about here for, was
it?--But I'll teach him!"
Marjolaine was very angry indeed. "Sir Peter!" she flashed at him, "If
you breathe it, I 'll never speak to you again!"
"D' ye think I 'll have him coming here--?"
"But he's not coming here!" cried Marjolaine; and with a meaning of her
own: "Oh, don't you see he's not coming?--Swear you won't breathe a word
to a living soul! Swear! Swear!"
"Damme!" cried the Admiral. "I must think that over. And as for you,"
he added, with humorous sternness, "you come and sit under the tree and
I 'll talk to you like a Dutch uncle."
Marjolaine saw Mrs. Poskett at her window. It would not do for Sir Peter
to talk to her like an uncle--Dutch or otherwise. "Sir Peter!" she
cried, "Sempronius is going to jump!"
Sir Peter rushed to the cat again, and again found him sound asleep. He
turned furiously towards Marjolaine, but Mrs. Poskett intercepted him.
"Good morning, Sir Peter!"
Sir Peter looked up, where the widow was shaking the ribbons of her cap
at him. "Morning, ma'am," he said, sulkily. "Your cat--"
"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Poskett, craning forward to see her pet. "Dear
Sempronius!--Don't disturb him! He's so happy!"
"But--!"
"I 'm sure it's going to rain," the widow explained. "He always sits
there when he feels rain coming; because the fish rise, and he loves
watching them."
"Confounded nonsense," growled Sir Peter.
Mrs. Poskett closed her window, and Sir Peter was on the point of
returning to Marjolaine and having it out with her, when Madame
Lachesnais came out of her house. Of course that made all conversation
with the girl impossible, and as he did not feel he could meet the
mother, knowing what he now knew, there was nothing left for him but to
salute her and beat a hasty retreat into his own house and think things
over.
*CHAPTER VII*
*SHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF*
[Illustration: Chapter VII headpiece]
Engrossed in her own gentle melancholy Madame crossed slowly towards the
river. She was sincerely distressed about Marjolaine. What could be
the matter with the child? This question had haunted her all the week;
but whenever she had tried to speak to her daughter, the latter had
evaded her on one pretext or another. In vain Madame racked her brains.
Marjolaine was not ill; yet she had no appetite; the colour had faded
from her cheeks; the spring had gone out of her step; and the laughter
had died from her lips. Madame remembered the time--long ago: twenty
years ago and more--when she herself had looked and spoken and moved,
just as Marjolaine did now; but there had been a very good reason for
that. In Marjolaine's case there could be no reason. No one had
crossed her young life--or, was she mistaken? That young man who had so
suddenly appeared: who had so suddenly revived the most poignant
memories of her own youth!--Was it conceivable that he and Marjolaine
had met? had perhaps met frequently? It was not conceivable.
Marjolaine was the soul of truth. Marjolaine had been perfectly happy
until a few days ago. Marjolaine had not shown any signs of recognition
when the young man stood there. And yet? Was it wise to be too sure?
In her own case there had been secrecy, and, now she remembered, she had
borne the secrecy unflinchingly; had shown a perfectly calm and happy
exterior. The secrets of the young seem to them quite innocent: merely
possessions of their own which they keep to themselves, which they
cannot understand they are in duty bound to disclose to their elders.
And, to be sure, her own father--she had lost her mother in early
youth--had never tried to win her confidence. A great entomologist
cannot be expected to allow his attention to be distracted by a girl's
sentimental nonsense. But she--had she paid enough attention to her
daughter? Had she not allowed herself to be lulled into false security
by the remoteness of Pomander Walk? But if the young man--Jack Sayle,
of all people in the world!--had won Marjolaine's heart, why, here were
the beginnings of a bitter tragedy: her own tragedy all over again. It
must be nipped in the bud. Mercilessly. She must be cruel to be kind.
Could she be cruel to Marjolaine? Motherhood had its duties, however,
and, now that this great fear was on her, she saw her duty plainly, and
would do it.
She was interrupted in her meditations by the sound of weeping, and for
the first time, she saw poor Marjolaine sitting under the tree, bending
low, with her face in her hands, shaken with great sobs. She hurried
across to the weeping girl, placed her arm very tenderly over her
shoulders and gently called her by her name.
[Illustration: "SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND
GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"]
The touch of her mother's arm, the sound of her mother's voice let loose
the floodgates. With a cry of "Oh, Maman!" Marjolaine threw her arms
round her mother's waist and buried her face against her. Madame sat
down beside her and drew her very close. "Cherie--my darling! What is
the matter?"
Marjolaine tried to master herself; tried to put on a brave face; dashed
the tears from her eyes, as she answered--"Nothing, Maman. I think--it
is so beautiful here!--So peaceful! It made me cry. Let me cry a
little on your heart."
There was a sad smile on Madame's face. As if you cried because the sun
was shining and the Walk was quiet! "Cry, Marjolaine," she murmured
soothingly. "Do you think I have not been watching you all this week?
Cry, my darling, and tell me."
"There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs.
"Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the
river. "There was something; but--" and down went her head on her
mother's breast--"there is nothing now."
Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!--I
tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time
in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were
parted."
"Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother's face, "that
was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no
longer exists. It has"--she made one of her quaint little gestures--"it
has--evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her
face.
Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then,
there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young
girl's heart? "Ah, cherie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists:
it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you
tell me."
Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her
some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of
puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and
anxious to speak, she had nothing to say.
"Tell me," repeated Madame.
"I can't, Maman."
"Why not?"
"I cannot begin alone: I don't know how."
"Shall I help you, Marjolaine?"
"Can you?"
Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might
lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively.
"Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger,
that young man--"
There was no need to go on. Marjolaine had already risen to her feet.
Her thoughts were let loose: all the thoughts she had locked in her
breast during the past week, the memories that had been tormenting her,
the problems she had been struggling with. She saw Jack Sayle as if he
were standing before her. "He stood over there, in the sun"--she spoke
quietly but intensely--"and he looked at me, and I looked at him; and--"
her voice was hushed, and although she addressed her mother she did not
turn to her, but kept her eyes on the spot where Jack had
stood--"Mother! what happened to me? I felt as if he and I had always
known each other, and as if we were alone in the world. No! As if he
were alone, and I were a part of him. And we spoke. Nothings. Things
that didn't matter. Silly things; about his being thirsty, and what I
could give him. But it was only our voices speaking. I know it was
only my voice: it was not I. I was thinking of sunshine and music and
flowers. And then we went into the Gazebo; and the foolish talk ran on!
And all the time my heart was singing!--He told me his name; and my
heart took it and wove music around it, and sang it! and sang it!" Her
voice sank to an awed whisper. "And--Mother!--I seemed to step out of
childhood suddenly, into--into what, Mother?--What was it?"
"Alas!" sighed Madame. The child's words had carried her back, so far,
so far! Back to her own early youth. Just so had the day been
transfigured for her. Just so the sunshine had taken on a new glamour.
Just so her own heart had sung its hymns of rapture. Just so she had
stepped across the threshold of childhood.
But Marjolaine continued. "When he went, I felt as if he had taken me
with him: my heart and my mind. He said he was coming again--but he
never came; and every day I have wandered about; looking for what he had
taken; looking for my life!" she sank on her knees at her mother's feet.
"He will never come again! He will never bring back what he has carried
away!--Oh, mother, what is it?"
Her tears flowed freely now, but silently: tears of relief at having
unburdened her heart. Madame looked down at her with such pity as only a
mother can feel. "My darling! Is it so serious as that? God help us,
poor blind things!" She remembered what she must have been doing while
this fateful meeting took place. "While my child was going through the
fire, I was matching silks for my embroidery!"
Marjolaine looked up at her with great, innocent eyes. "But it would
have been the same if you had been there!"
"I suppose so," said Madame, sadly. "There is no barrier against it:
not even a mother's arms."
"But what is it?" asked Marjolaine, wistfully.
Her mother looked at her searchingly, and Marjolaine met her gaze
steadfastly, with her clear, truthful eyes. It was patent she did not
indeed know what caused this new pain at her heart. Madame looked long.
Her daughter seemed, in a way, suddenly to have become a stranger to
her. This child was a child no longer, and her mother no longer held
the first place in her heart. Yes! and if Marjolaine had suddenly leapt
out of childhood, then she, the mother, must begin to face old age: she
was the mother of a marriageable girl. She would fight against this
while she could; not for unworthy or small motives, but to keep her
daughter's companionship. Who was this Jack Sayle that he should come
like a thief in the night and steal Marjolaine's youth, her happiness
and her peace of mind, and tear the girl out of her mother's arms? "No,"
she said, at last, "I will not tell you. If I told you it would grow
stronger; and it must not. It shall not. You must win yourself back,
as I did. Oh! but sooner, and more completely!"
Marjolaine was amazed. Had her mother gone through what she was going
through now? "As you did--?" she cried, in a voice which betrayed her
astonishment.
Madame smiled sadly. "My dearest dear, the young never realise they are
not beginning the world. Your story is mine."
With a cry of "Oh, mother!" Marjolaine nestled closer.
"Yes; but mine was longer and therefore left more pain in its track.
Cherie, cherie, I am not telling you this to make light of your sorrow,
but to show you I know what your pain is: to show you how to fight now,
now, with all your might, to win yourself back." She paused a moment,
to gather her thoughts and to gather strength. Then she continued very
softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself, "It was years and
years ago, in my father's garden--in the old vicarage garden--that I
felt the sun and the song enter my heart. He and I were very young and
very happy." Madame paused. "And then he rode away; and I never saw him
again."
"Maman!" whispered Marjolaine, stroking her mother's cheek.
"We had lived in our dream a whole year; so my love--"